


Come a Little Closer

by blue_jack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Crack, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has always had a thing for alphas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come a Little Closer

Stiles has always had a thing for alphas.

It’s not a problem, no matter what Scott says. It’s not like he tries to jump them or anything—it was just the one time. One time in a few hundred is an anomaly, not the norm. 

He just really, really likes the way they smell.

Not in a fetishy way! It’s not like he wants to stick his nose in some random alpha’s hair or hell, armpit, and jack off. It’s just . . . comforting. Like there’s something about having that dark, woodsy smell near him that makes him want to relax into a warm puddle of goo. It’s totally not weird.

Okay, it’s a little weird, but still, not that big a deal.

Or at least, it hadn’t been until he met Derek.

Remember how he mentioned he might have jumped _one_ alpha _one_ time? Well, that had been Derek. And Stiles didn’t even have the excuse that he’d been close to a heat or anything. He’d just been minding his own business, talking to Erica about . . . something, hell, he doesn’t remember anymore, and then Scott had knocked on his shoulder and said there was someone he wanted him to meet, and BAM! Stiles had come to when he was being dragged off a very dazed and surprised Derek, and embarrassment, what embarrassment?

But things have been fine since. Sure, Stiles still kind of stands too close to Derek when he’s around, and yeah, he might have rifled through Derek’s medicine cabinet in search of his cologne that one time Derek invited everyone over in the hopes of figuring out if it was the combination of alpha scent and his cologne that made him nigh-irresistible—Derek doesn’t wear cologne, fuck his life—and _alright_ , he might have stolen a Tshirt of Derek’s when he, Derek, and Scott were at the gym last week and gone home and cuddled it in a completely platonic way, but Stiles is _fine._

 _So fine_ , he thinks as he sees Derek walking through the door of the coffee shop where Stiles has been trying to get some work done and being woefully unsuccessful about it. _So mighty, mighty fine._

“Stiles.”

“Hey, Derek,” he says, unobtrusively sucking in as much air as he can, and fuck, it is not fair that someone can look like that, and smell like that, and just—

Stiles kind of wants to protest the enormity of the injustice that was perpetrated on the world when they created Derek. Even his eyebrows are attractive. _Even his eyebrows._

“Want to go out to dinner tonight?”

“What?” Stiles says after a long pause.

“Dinner. With me. Tonight,” Derek says with his perfectly even teeth showing, and wait, what is he talking about? Stiles blames it on the fumes from Derek’s body. He isn’t normally this out of it.

“Why?” he asks, and oh look, there’s his close friend, humiliation, coming for a visit.

Derek’s lucky he smells so good, Stiles decides, taking another deep sniff. Otherwise, Stiles would never hang out with him in order to save the last shredded remains of his pride.

“Well, you’re always smelling me—”

“I do not!” Stiles says shrilly and crap, it’s kind of hard to breathe when you already have a lungful of air and don’t want to let it out in case the object of your olfactory obsession notices. Who knew?

“—so I thought you might be interested in getting to know me better on a one-on-one basis. I already picked out a shirt I wore a few times and forgot to wash,” Derek says, like that’s supposed to be some kind of incentive.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles says, and there is a growing pressure in his chest. To breathe—and subsequently prove Derek’s point—or not to breathe—and possibly faint. That is the question.

“Is that a yes?” Derek asks, and the fucker can totally tell what Stiles is doing if the growing smirk on his face is anything to go by. Damn it.

He holds it in for a few seconds longer, but he has really weak lung capacity, okay, it’s not his fault. 

“Fine!” Stiles says, letting out an explosive breath.

“Great, I’ll pick you up at six.”

Stiles vacillates until Derek opens the door, and then he yells, “And don’t forget the shirt!” Whatever. Pride is for the weak.

\-----

Sooooo, they don’t actually make it to dinner. He has to say upfront that it’s not his fault. Derek is totally the one to blame, because who gives their date a hug at the beginning of the evening? After the date, sure, that makes sense, especially if you’re trying to avoid the whole question of a first kiss, but like before the date even starts? No way.

So Derek wrapping his damn muscular arms around Stiles and not saying anything when Stiles accidentally wedges his nose behind Derek’s ear and inhales for all he’s worth—fuck, how does he smell that good, rich and earthy—well, that’s just silliness, right there.

“We should . . . probably get going,” Derek mumbles who knows how long later, and oh yeah, there’d been a reason Derek had come over, hadn’t there?

Stiles pulls away just enough that’s he’s no longer surrounded by the scent of alpha and home and security, and then there must be some sort of timeskip like in the movies, because the next thing he knows, he’s on his knees with his face pressed to Derek’s crotch, and woah, how did that get there?

“ _Stiles_?” Derek says, and Stiles would probably enjoy the squeak in his voice a lot more if he could concentrate on anything other than burying his face a little deeper into the V of Derek’s jeans. 

_Fuck_. And Stiles had thought Derek smelled good _before_.

“Derek,” he says, and he really hopes Derek can hear him even though he’s muffled by his clothes and thighs thicker than Stiles’ waist—shit, he might have just come a little. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am really attracted to you, and I would appreciate it if we skipped dinner and went straight to the fucking.” 

“Are you sure?” Derek asks, his voice gratifyingly hoarse, and wait, what did he just ask?

Stiles wouldn’t have had the willpower to lean back for anything as inconsequential as breathing, but in order to give Derek a look at the stupidity of his question? Oh yeah, he could pull back for that.

“What? I just wanted to check,” Derek grumbles, and okay, okay, he gets all the points in the Good Guy category, but right now, there needs to be less talking and more undressing.

He tries to wait until Derek is naked before he goes any further, he does, but as soon as Derek’s jeans are part way down his glorious thighs and Stiles gets a waft of his boxer-briefs, which are being stretched out by what seems to be a _magnificent_ cock, Stiles just kind of dives in, rubbing his face along soft cotton and taking deep, deep breaths, and this is heaven. He’s died and gone to heaven.

“You know,” Derek says, a trifle dryly, “if you wanted to stand up, I could—”

Stiles smacks his thigh and shushes him. He’s getting there. He’s just really happy where he is right now—and speaking of which, when had he started massaging his own cock through his jeans?

Okay, so still not a kink. But he could maybe appreciate how it could turn into one.

And then Stiles makes the mistake of pulling down Derek’s underwear.

Oh _damn_ , he thinks, swaying a little, and he can feel the spread of warmth as he lets out a gush of slick, because if the impact of Derek in jeans and Derek in just boxer-briefs had been big, then the jump to Derek in nothing at all is like being whacked in the face with a cast iron pan. Derek has always smelled good, but now he smells _incredible_ , and Stiles just wants to nuzzle under his balls and stay there all day.

That being said, he swears he’s only down there for a minute or two before he realizes Derek’s tugging at his hair, but his whole face feels a bit fuzzy at the end of it, and Derek’s thighs and cock are red from what looks like beard burn. Oops.

“Will you get up here?” Derek says, sounding wrecked and grabbing Stiles by the shoulders to raise him to his feet, and no, shit, fuck.

“I think you should come on my face,” Stiles blurts out, because it’s the first thing he can think of to stay where he is, and he clings to Derek’s thighs like there’s no tomorrow. Although . . . that is actually not a bad idea. Stiles would totally wear Derek’s come. 

His cock flexes, slapping against his stomach, and he swears his underwear squelches a little bit when he moves, it’s so soaked.

Oh yeah. He’d wear Derek’s come all fucking day.

Derek looks completely gobsmacked, and he’s not saying anything, but he’s not trying to get him on his feet anymore, so Stiles is totally taking that as a yes. 

Oh, oh, oh, oh, how does this keep getting _better_? Derek isn’t even doing anything, but this is still the best sex of Stiles’ life, because Derek tastes _amazing_. It’s like a flavor _explosion_ , and Stiles moans and lets the head of Derek’s cock rest on his tongue so he can taste every drop of precome without wasting any of it. He fumbles at his button, because if he doesn’t get a couple of fingers in his ass, he’s going to go insane, and he gasps like he’s dying when he sinks them in knuckle deep.

“Come _here_ ,” Derek growls, and Stiles doesn’t get a chance to argue this time around, because Derek’s pulling back and manhandling him into position, dragging his jeans and boxers down and off, and then pushing Stiles onto his back, and crap, he’s going to ruin the entryway carpet, because his slick is leaking over everything.

He just has time to whine, “But what about coming on my face?” and then Derek’s crawling on top of him, head to crotch, and oh fuck, Stiles thinks he’s fallen in love when Derek lines his cock up to Stiles’ mouth, those gorgeous thighs of his framing Stiles’ face, the scent of everything good in life settling over him. 

Stiles groans loudly when Derek pushes in—the angle makes Stiles have to stretch his mouth even wider than before, and Derek isn’t shy about taking what he wants, going in deep enough to bump against Stiles’ throat with each thrust—but he nearly yells when Derek starts eating him out, bypassing his cock completely to lick and suck at his dripping hole. 

That is just—that is just so _not fair_. Derek should not be _allowed_ to be this good in bed. 

Except when he’s in bed with him, he thinks, as Derek does something truly exceptional with his tongue. Then it’s alright.

Derek chooses that moment to push what damn well feels like four fingers into him, and Stiles really loses it, making a high-pitched sound he doesn’t think is humanly possible. It should hurt—and it _does_ hurt, but it also feels fan-fucking- _tastic_ —and then Derek moves his talented mouth to Stiles’ cock, and that’s it, ladies and gentlemen, stick a fork in him; he’s done, he thinks, as he starts to come, shaking apart as Derek fucks him, his body jerking with each shove of Derek’s fingers, and the scent of home keeping him safe.

Derek fucks him for real after that, when he’s too blissed out to do more than take it, his legs thrown over Derek’s shoulders and pleased little grunts falling from his mouth over and over again.

They don’t knot, because he’s not in heat, but Stiles wonders what that’d be like, being locked with Derek, their fingers curled together, and the scent of their happiness making him dopey. He’d like to find out.

“You still owe me dinner,” Derek mumbles into his shoulder later, after they’ve showered and fallen into bed, and he doesn’t look like he’s in any rush to get up.

And Stiles grins and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”


End file.
